


Unexpected

by cathouse_mary



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Bisexuality, Gen, M/M, Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Reapers, Shinigami
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-02
Updated: 2011-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:45:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathouse_mary/pseuds/cathouse_mary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric Slingby doesn't need a trainee slowing him down. Alan Humphries doesn't want a partner. How it all began.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Interoffice Memo: London Dispatch

**Grim Reaper Dispatch Association**

 **London Division**

 **Interoffice Memo**

 

0732 **E. Slingby** to **W. Spears** : I do not need a partner.

0735 **W. Spears** to **E. Slingby** : If you will note, I did not ask if you did. You’re being assigned one.

0740 **E. Slingby** to **W. Spears** : No. It’s a bad idea. Forget it. Find someone else.

0801 **W. Spears** to **E. Slingby** : Come and pick up the dossier.

0805 **E. Slingby** to **W. Spears** : You’re not listening. I said no, and I meant no.

0808 **W. Spears** to **E. Slingby** : Requisition slip for new equipment enclosed.

0815 **E. Slingby** to **W. Spears** : A diving suit? Where are you putting me?

0912 **W. Spears** to **E. Slingby** : The Thames.

0917 **E. Slingby** to **W. Spears** : As in the river.

0920 **W. Spears** to **E. Slingby** : Unless there’s another Thames?

0923 **E. Slingby** to **W. Spears** : As in underwater?

0927 **W. Spears** to **E. Slingby** : It is a river, and it has water in it, hence the diving suit. So, yes.

0931 **E. Slingby** to **W. Spears** : You bastard.

0935 **W. Spears** to **E. Slingby** : Immaterial. Also insubordinate. There’s an opening at Bedlam.

0945 **E. Slingby** to **W. Spears** : Give me the bloody dossier.

0947 **W. Spears** to **E. Slingby** : Dossier for Humphries, Alan.

1000 **E. Slingby** to **W. Spears** : What are you thinking? He’s a kid! You’ve lost your bloody mind.

1005 **W. Spears** to **E. Slingby** : He passed his final exam – he’s a Reaper.

1008 **E. Slingby** to **W. Spears** : His exam partner deserted him?

1015 **W. Spears** to **E. Slingby** : Their assignment was possessed by a fallen angel.

1023 **E. Slingby** to **W. Spears** : The dossier denotes collection completed out of jurisdiction?

1028 **W. Spears** to **E. Slingby** : Collection completed in Tombstone, Arizona Territory, Americas.

1034 **E. Slingby** to **W. Spears** : American Reapers. Scary. AAA in Technique? And everything else?

1041 **W. Spears** to **E. Slingby** : All the way through the academy.

1045 **E. Slingby** to **W. Spears** : You do not want to put this little swot with me. Trust me on this.

1056 **W. Spears** to **E. Slingby** : Yes, actually I do want to put him with you. He has a serious tendency to overthink his course of action at the wrong time. Then do exactly the opposite when he needs to work coldly. The fallen angel was able to play him like a harp - sympathy and empathy with suffering are his weak spots. Moreover, his partner deserted him when the angel turned and attacked, leaving him to face down an angel with a student scythe. Administration blundered in not catching the fact of the possession. Reaper Humphries has in all aspects been failed by the Society when he most needed full support and when we needed to earn his trust. There are problems with that lack of trust that will need someone steady, reliable, and someone who – most of all – can show himself to be trustworthy.

1117 **E. Slingby** to **W. Spears** : Will? {REDACTED. CENSORED. EXPURGATED. DELETED.}

1130 **W. Spears** to **E. Slingby** : Immaterial. Irrelevant. Inaccurate. Immature. Are you accepting or declining?

1150 **E. Slingby** to **W. Spears** : Get reaped with a broken fork, Will. Accepting.

 


	2. Territories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bureaucratic wrangling, Reaper-style, as Will tries to locate and bring in Alan Humphries.

It was something of an affront to Eric that the partner foisted upon him did not show up at the appointed hour.

“So where is Mr. Triple A, Will?” It was unthinkable; Reapers were noted for punctuality.

Inquiries were made, and from the expression on Will’s face the answers were unacceptable.  
The telephone was a wonderful invention, and higher management made sure that each dispatch office adopted the technology. Will picked up an Association directory and started dialing, first placing a call to the Tucson dispatch office in the Arizona Territory.

Apparently ‘Bonny’s Bunch’ had gone riding - with Alan Humphries in tow - to someplace in New Mexico Territory for a collection. Calling all over New Mexico, Arizona and Utah Territories produced a bureaucratic runaround that resembled a clown show before they were informed that the ‘posse’ was riding north through the middle of bloody nowhere to Denver. Calling Colorado went over like a brick balloon until two days later, when the Denver office called Will. They were informed that the Reapers had detoured for an epidemic of ‘break-bone fever’ in a place only referred to as ‘down the border around the Rio Grande’ and were not reachable.

“How big is this division, anyway?” Eric asked.

Will did not know, and the information they did have was inaccurate, and seemingly changed from day to day. An inquiry up the chain of command brought back the sobering news that fifty Reapers covered an area from the Mexican border to the Canadian border, from the Rocky Mountains to the west bank of the Mississippi. And London division was said to be understaffed!

A week later, the Americans admitted that Alan Humphries's orders sending him to London were likely still in the post and had not caught up with him. Further, the Reapers were now ‘up the border in Montana Territory’ to deal with a mine disaster. They’d send someone to ‘chase him down presently.’

“And how soon would that be?" Will's right eyebrow was twitching. Never a good sign. "What do you mean, ‘before winter?’ It’s the middle of July!”

Eric pirated the handset from Will’s ear. “Look, you. That’s our Reaper, so pack him up and ship him home.”

“I don’t know you from Aunt Tessie’s cat, old son. Go hang.” The man set the telephone handset on the desk and went about his business, and no amount of yelling would get him to pick the handset up again.

Two days after that, ‘Bonny’s Bunch’ was finally said to be coming into one of the offices to properly file reports and see the collected souls into safekeeping. Where tuned out to be a dispatch office for the American Territories located in Laramie, Wyoming.

“Officer Bonny, please. Ah. Bonnie May Clement." Oh, Hell's bells, Will was never at his best with the ladies. If possible, he was even stiffer. "You’d be the senior officer of the ‘posse,’ then? I’m calling about a misplaced Reaper whose orders have apparently not caught up with him. Alan Humphries.” Will’s eyebrow twitched at the response. “That is not open to discussion. He has his orders… what do you mean? Well if you’d stay in one place long enough for the post to catch up… does not… does not… does… the connection is not going bad, you harridan… hello? Hello?”

Blocked on one front, Will went to a stance of total bureaucratic warfare. Memos flew like bullets and files like artillery, with some surgical bombardments delivered up close and personal to one Senior Reaper Elizabeth 'Bonnie' Clement by Will's ever-obliging pigeons. Not that Reaper Clement was in anyway cowed, judging by the mount of return fire. She had found herself a "damn fine Reaper" and was of a mind to keep him. For the Reaper in question, it appeared that he had nothing to say to those who had given him a collection that should have required a team of seasoned officers instead of two kids on their exam.

Not that Eric blamed him, not after getting his hands on the situation report from the Tucson office. The partner that Humphries had been assigned was now manning a typewriter in the Orkneys, not allowed to wield so much as a pair of safety scissors. The Board was mortified at the mistakes that allowed that particular situation to go unaddressed, and honestly horrified that Alan Humphries came so very close to becoming the Fallen's next host.

Reaper Clement and her cadre came upon the fight, and were able to assist Alan Humphries in bringing down the possessed so the soul could be collected. There was then 'a little dust-up' with a band of angels sent to collect the Fallen before consequences could be meted out.

Eric closed the file, then dug a tin of cigarettes and a box of matches out of his desk drawer. Will was going to trust him with fixing this, and Eric wasn't at all sure that he was the right Reaper for the job.

~

The Bon Ton Saloon and Hostelry was a favoured haunt for the Reapers of Wyoming Territory, offering baths, whiskey, beer, billiards, cards, music, dancing, and a telephone. At the moment Elizabeth May Clement, Senior Reaper, could have cheerfully shot the damned thing if she'd not been thinking of a) her pay packet, and b) the new pair of boots she wanted for winter, and c) the last time she'd been in a pissing match with upper management.

"Nope, orders still not here. No, we're not going to wait until they do. We have over four hundred collections after our week off. Eight on, one off - that's our deal and we have four more days. Then you'll have to wait until we show up somewhere else. No, I am not going to go fetch him, he's earned his pay and his time off. I'll leave him a message to call you back. You can kiss my happy ass, Willie, I ain't your dog or your errand girl."

Alan Humphries was not available because Alan Humphries was upstairs with Jack Boudreaux and Nancy Fivecrows, seeing if they could crack the plaster in room ten with that fancy brass headboard. Let the kid have his fun, he'd earned every bit of it. Her merry band thought he was the toughest little thing, and Susan Sykes was just thrilled to have someone to dance with who was close to her own height. After seeing him work, Bonnie knew Alan was a good fit for her Reapers - he might be new, but he was no tenderfoot. He freed the soul of the poor bastard the Fallen was riding, only to have the Fallen decide to try a Reaper on for size - and he made the Fallen regret the idea.

Damn angels anyway. Never tending their own until there's Fallen raising all kinds of fuss, and then when one needs a reaping they step in to stop it.

On the other end of the line, she could hear Willie Spears winding up for a blow. "Aw, crap. Bad connection again. Sorry, old son, but we'll check in next time we make a saloon with a telephone."

That would be about October. Ought to keep Chilly Willie's drawers in a twist quite nicely. With any luck, bureaucritters in Administration would still be chasing their tails by the time she and her Reapers made it to Boise.

~

The things they didn't teach at the academy was becoming a numbered list.

Shaving with a knife was amongst the things not taught. Alan stopped breathing as Jack's ham-sized hands guided the blade over his adam's apple and told himself that an erection would be utterly inappropriate response. Or would have been if Nancy were not playing barber's chair with her bare bosoms pressed against his equally bare back.

Jack chuckled, flicking the last bit of shaving soap from the edge of the knife. "Ready for another go, cher? I don't think Nancy'd mind, but you've done squeezed me dry."

"Sorry, but I believe that it's my body's wishful thinking." Alan replied, feeling a slight flush warm his cheeks. "You've both been most... hospitable?"

Nancy chuckled warmly, doing something distracting to Alan's left nipple. "Oh, I can wait until you gentlemen have restocked. Besides, Bonnie's got our pay packets, and there was a bolt of cloth I had in mind over at the dry goods store."

"I had my eye on a new saddle and blanket for Buck." Jack started to lather his own stubbly beard. "You ought to come with us and let us get you outfitted, Alan. Winter's going to be here before you know it."

Alan shook his head. "I don't think I'll be here much longer. My orders have to catch up to me at some point, and I wouldn't want to have Reaper Clement in trouble over me."

"You got a place here, if you want it. Bonnie's been bucking the Powers That Be for a long time." Jack flicked his blade along his jawline, cutting a clean swath. "Hell, she's been on the job longer than all of us together. Besides, you're her kind - so stubborn that you held onto that angel clear across the ocean!"

"It was too late to let go!" Alan reminded them. Alan had grabbed on to the escaping being, not remembering that angels could fly at unthinkable speed, and they'd been slamming into a place called Tombstone before Alan was fully sensible of having left England. "Besides, I was rather upset."

And after that, he'd been fighting for his life and soul. The angel, having damaged the flesh of Edgar Wimble beyond repair, wanted a different and more durable vehicle and Alan had been at hand. Had it not been for Reaper Clement and her cadre, his own death would have become the least of Alan's worries. The aftermath was worse, perhaps, than the fight itself.

Nancy pressed a kiss to the back of Alan's neck as he gave an involuntary shiver. "We've got you."

Jack made a noise of disgust. "Sending a pair of greenhorns with only book-learning on a collection and nobody looking out for them. I hope someone's mopping floors for a few centuries over that one."

"Oughta be ridden out of town on a rail." Nancy bucked her hips. "Come on, sugar, I need to get dressed and get my pay. You can help me lace up."

Whatever modesty or bashfulness Alan might have retained after sharing dormitory and bath space was fairly well demolished after living out of saddlebags for a month. In fact, he'd seen Bonnie, Nancy, Rosario, and Susan without a thread on their bodies - and asked them to please pass the soap. However, under other circumstances, all the Reapers of Bonnie's Bunch were warm and generous company whatever bits they sported. It had to do less with naked than with circumstances, he'd found.

Alan rose a bit reluctantly, Nancy was a comfortable lounge. "I suppose I should go with you. I need to replace my suit and tie." Which had been shredded in the most literal fashion imaginable. He was grateful to have been outfitted as the others were, but Alan felt he looked a right twit in cowboy garb.

~

Will pushed the point with Them Upstairs. Alan Humphries, despite the disastrous nature of his first assignment, was their Reaper. The Americans might have him, had certainly succored and supported him through what must have been a difficult situation, but they ought not to be allowed the keeping of him. Eric was firmly in agreement, whatever mistakes were made, it was up to the Society to repair them. Alan Humphries was a Reaper, an English one, and not a strayed kitten.

"We should just go get him, Will." Eric opined. "This Reaper Clement is out of bounds. She knows the orders are out there and she's running ahead of them."

Will looked at him over the rims of his glasses. "I could live a lot longer without meeting Elizabeth Clement. She's obnoxious."

Considering Will's yardstick for measuring obnoxious was Grell Sutcliff, Eric was given pause.

A cream-and-russet homing pigeon alighted on the ledge outside the window and tapped on the glass for Will's attention. Will had a way with the wee things, and for that they'd fly anywhere for him. Administration considered it an eccentricity, but Will was an eccentricity himself. The bird perched on Will's gloved finger and cooed at him softly.

Will did not smile, but he looked very satisfied as he opened the message tube and unrolled the slip of paper within. "There is a member of upper management who will personally deliver the order to bring him back."

~

It was something of a set-to.

Quincy Pollard was based out of the Boston division, but when the order came down to go west and get Reaper Clement to toe the mark, off he went to Laramie. Reaper Humphries' creased, stamped, spindled and folded orders were tucked into his briefcase as he stepped from his glass-and-steel office into a dusty, unpaved and rutted street. The Bon-Ton Saloon was at full roar, and Quincy was mindful of the 'Wipe Your Damn Feet!' sign over the door.

Inside, it was a mixed crowd. There were vamps and skin-changers, slumming angels and cruising demons, even some actual humans to round out the crowd. The Reapers, however, were easy to find around a table loaded with food and drink - a group of green-eyed folk all in glasses, and only one in a sober black wool gabardine suit.

"Good evening. I'm Quincy Pollard from the Society's Boston division administrative office." The lady with iron grey hair and steel wire-rims gave him a look that could have flash-melted a lead ingot. She had a record as long as he was tall - and at six-and-a-half feet in small type, that was some record. "You would be Senior Reaper Clement, I presume?"

It would be inconvenient to take on the entire table. Territories Reapers had deserved reputations for skill and toughness, but also for being a little like wolfpacks. They had not offered him a greeting, much less a seat, and a couple were openly hostile. He had to play his hand closely.

"I'm here from concerning the London division's diverted Reaper Humphries." Quincy opened the briefcase and took out the orders, looking directly at the young man in the suit. "Is he about?"

"He is." The young man sighed, looking at his comrades. "I won't have any of you getting crossed up with Administration because of me. It would be poor repayment for your help and your hospitality." A smile of pure irreverence lightened his face. "Besides, London could punt me tomorrow and I'd be back crying at your tent-flaps."

Reaper Clement's gaze softened. "You let us know of anyone needs shooting, won't you? But I don't think that you'll be heading back right off." Then she smiled at Quincy, showing a mouth of rather bitey-looking teeth. "You took did a Reaper's work, have your pay to prove it, and that entitles you to the rest of your time off. Those are the rules, Reaper Pollard, are they not?"

~

"There has been a small delay." The voice on the other end of the telephone was full of chagrin. "Reaper Humphries worked a full month with Reaper Clement, and drew his pay. The Society's own rules allow him to finish the allocated time off before resuming his duties."

Will rubbed the spot above his right eyebrow that was trying to twitch. Could one actually burn out a nerve? "I see, Reaper Pollard. How many days will that be?"

"Three more. Reaper Clements report of his time in the saddle is nothing short of glowing, Reaper Spears." There was a weighing silence. "And Reaper Humphries seems reluctant to return to the English branch's oversight."

"It is understandable, given that a severe lack of oversight nearly ended his life." Will loosened his tie.The shift was almost over, and he could hear his Reapers coming in. "How reluctant, in your estimation, might he be?"

"A very good question. You realise that there are not many places over the Territories where a Reaper can make passage? There's not enough human population. Once the Reapers ride out, it's months before any office sees them again." Reaper Pollard spoke casually, but there was a warning edge to his voice. "Our outriders are the best we have, and your kid could take that horse and be gone like a breeze. I know heads are rolling in Administration, but unless you get Reaper Humphries back there and can show yourselves trustworthy and competent, I might as well start the paperwork for his formal transfer."

Will took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Laramie in Wyoming, you said? I'll be bringing another of my staff with me."


	3. Best Foot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving forward.

The sojourn in Laramie did not start on an auspicious note, beginning as it did with both he and Will feet first in a pile of horse-

"Crap." Will so aptly noted. And it was still steaming, too.

So. This was Laramie. A place named for a French bloke who went off and likely met a Reaper in those nice-looking mountains with snow on them in the middle of July over there. The only good thing was that it had recently rained thus turning the street into a quagmire, and unless you were standing in a flattening pile of cooling ruminant excreta, it was hard to tell where the mud stopped and the shit began.

Directly in front of them was a hefty red brick building with gaudy signage that proclaimed itself the Bon Ton Saloon - Baths 5 Cents, No Credit, and Wipe Your Damn Feet. Directly in front of the Bon Ton was a well-fed, skin-bald chap in a dark grey suit and a rather fancy jacquard waistcoat. Said suit and waistcoat proclaimed him to be a fair sight higher in rank than a squeaky new division head like Will. The very embodiment of upper management also wore an incongruous pair of black gum rubber Wellingtons, carried two more pair, and held aloft a bumbershoot.

"Terribly sorry about your shoes, Reaper Spears, Reaper Slingby, but quality footwear is something of a rarity here. You might as well just throw them away and use these for the time being." The accent was almost-not-quite a clipped Oxonian English as he held out the boots. "There are stockings within. I am informed by Reaper Mikhail Petrovich that the footwear are referred to rather colourfully as 'shitkickers' - that being all one word."

Eric could see Will restraining himself from comment. At times, Eric was of the opinion that the more rank one accrued, the less freedom one had. They put on the new wool socks and boots, their previous footwear going into the local midden heap.

"So good of you to come." Reaper Pollard led them into the establishment. "Do wipe your feet, please. The innkeeper has the habit of enforcing compliance with a saddle gun."

The inside gave Eric rather more cheer. Now this was the right kind of place to party! The whiskey and beer was in barrels behind the bar, and there were things called 'poteen' and 'corn likker' that were put up in glass jars. In the corner was and upright piano with a fellow in a bowler hat and a striped shirt playing and singing about 'Long Tall Sally' - who sounded a right kind of lass. The scents from the kitchen bespoke chips and frying chicken, and there was spicy-smelling something called 'chilinobeans' being served up in yellow bread trenchers. Gaming tables resounded with the crack of celluloid cards and rattle of dice, and his pay gave notice that it would be parting company soon.

"So where is the peripatetic Humphries, Reaper Pollard?" Will asked, giving Eric a quelling look. They had a duty to complete. Right. No fun until then, and depending on the kid's attitude, maybe not much fun after.

"He's in the stables with the rest of the group, grooming his horse."

"Horse." Eric repeated. "They gave him a horse?"

"Riding a pale horse and all that, though these are called 'cutting horses' and are piebald black and white." Pollard signalled the innkeeper. "The Society maintains mounts where there is not enough population for inter-realm passages to form. Two rooms for the young gentlemen, Madam, if you please."

The innkeeper did not so much have bosoms as breastworks, and her corset must have been a feat of engineering. "You'll behave yourself and follow the rules or I'll part your hair with a bullet. Why I need an establishment full of rowdy young Reapers..."

~

Alan was nose to nose with Idiot. Reaper Clement had requisitioned a mount for him in Tucson and tossed him into the saddle of the beautiful magpie-marked gelding. He was grateful, having thought he'd be left alone in this very strange land, but Idiot was... well... an idiot. He had an easy gait, for which Alan and his arse were grateful, and was both obedient and affable.

"You are utterly gorgeous, but there is not a speck of brains in your head." Alan ran the metal comb through the vain thing's mane. "You just get along with me because you want to be brushed, fed treats and cosseted. Come to think of it, I might be the idiot here since I'm waiting hand and hoof on you."

Idiot did not contest this, instead nosing at the pockets of Alan's borrowed dungarees for more dried fruit treats. With a pang, Alan realised that he was going to miss his horse, too. It had not been easy for him to fit in anywhere as it was here. In the academy, he was to short, too smart, too intense, too hot to prove himself. Here, he was someone else. He had respect, and friendship, and people who didn't think he was strange - and yet he was still Alan Humphries.

It was probably stupid to be talking to a horse, but he did. "I don't want to leave. I like this place. I like these people." Idiot lifted his head and whuffled at Alan's hair. "Leave off, it's messy enough. I just don't want them in trouble. They've been so good to me."

The crowning insult was that there were two officers from London division coming to herd him back like collies after a stray lamb. There were a lot of things that Alan could have taken with better grace, but this was not one of them. Reaper Pollard had interviewed him extensively, counselled him that the Society was horrified and apologetic at placing him in such danger, and that he should be gracious enough to accept and return to a 'coveted' spot in London division.

There was something Alan had wanted to be when he was at the academy, and up until the moment his exam partner had run like a scalded dog, he had been certain that was where he was going. Then he had been alone, no other Reaper anywhere, and a Fallen spreading wings into the sky. Truthfully, the only thing Alan had been thinking about as he grabbed hold of the wing flanges was that he would not be made to fail the test.

Then he had thought that there was an awful lot of water down there.

Then he'd seen a green blur that faded to a yellow-red blur, and after that he'd hit the ground stunningly hard.

And that was hard enough that Reaper Clement had to pick gravel out of his flesh with the point of her knife after the fight was done.

Oddly, it was only after the dust had quite literally settled that he'd had trouble. His clothes were in shreds, he was bloody from head to ankles, had the living daylights beaten out of him, and nearly had his own soul extracted from his living body. The Reapers cleaned him up, dressed his wounds, and put clothes on his back, and fed him with something called chilli and corn-bread.

Then they assisted him in becoming completely liquefied drunk on their bourbon whisky.

More than even their generous aid, they'd taken him in and treated him as one of their own without questions or qualifications. Alan had always considered himself a loner, someone outside of everything, forever looking in. To have that kind of warmth and camaraderie just handed to him was profound. Leave it? He'd found he craved it, and he'd learned so much!

What good was being a top student when you couldn't figure out a way to stay in a place you'd been trying to find for all your life?

~

Room nine was nice enough, big enough to move around in and obviously intended for a long term stay with a wardrobe in the corner and a large desk looking out the south-facing window. Eric set his suitcase on the rack at the foot of the bed and blew out an irritated breath. They'd be three more days here making sure that Reaper Humphries didn't ride out of town, unless the kid could be convinced to un-dig his heels and be reasonable.

Eric opened the windows, letting in a summer breeze. A boy in the stable-yard was practicing with a lariat and talking to someone out of Eric's line of sight.

"... don't know, cher. All right, try to lasso that post." The voice was a man's, with a not-quite French accent. "It's a mess, but I'd say that whatever you learn and wherever you learn it comes in handy wherever you go." The boy flung the loop over the fence post and pulled it fast. "Bon boulot! You couldn't do that a month ago. Now put your hat on, you're the kind to go as red as a boil crawfish."

The boy flicked the rope, pulling the loop back to his hand and casting again.

"Mais!" A black broad-brimmed hat flew, spinning in the air and landed on the boy's head. "You just about bullheaded, Alan."

Oh.

"I look a twit, Jack." Alan adjusted the hat, turning to face his invisible instructor. Messy brown hair and student-issue glasses topped a delicate-featured face, and the kid was probably not even shaving yet.

Had he ever been that young? To Eric it seemed almost impossible, though Grell swore that when he - she - first saw Eric there was an internal debate as to whether to take Eric on for training or tuck him in with a cup of hot milk and read him a story.

"You look even more twit with your nose burned off." Jack asserted. "Les belles femmes not going to be kissing you then."

"Well, you do all right even with your face, though Nancy doesn't seem to mind." Alan ducked a thrown boot, laughing and backing up as Jack came into view. "Though she's very ki-iiiiiiiind!"

A barrel-chested man stepped into view and lifted the youth into the air by belt and collar as he turned to run. "Mais! Sassy, you! I think you need to cool down!" There was a tremendous splash as Alan Humphries was tossed into the water trough, and it was followed by a vigorous ducking.

Three minutes later Eric was knocking vigorously on Will's door, all of his arguments on why he was the wrong Reaper for this job at muster.

The door opened.

"I-"

"No." Will said.

The door shut.

Downstairs he paid for the use of the telephone booth, calling the London office.

"Grim Reaper Dispatch Society, London Division. This is Reaper Sutcliff speaking."

"Get me out of this, Senior. Please."

"I have one word for you, Eric."

"Could we have it be yes?"

"Schadenfreude. Look it up."

~

Will read the reports written by Reaper Clement and thought hard about them. His initial reading of Alan Humphries weaknesses was dead on, but there were surprising strengths that had gone without mention in his academy record. Reaper Clement's report of the fight with the Fallen was hair-raising. What havoc a Fallen could unleash with a death god's body instead of frail human flesh Will had no desire to find out.

Reaper Humphries had a good eye for what others were doing in a melee, and coordinating his offence and defence accordingly. While he was capable of doing well on his own, the young Reaper was better with an experienced, cooler-headed partner - all of the Americans had at least a century on the job. The American Reapers scythes of choice were not taught at the Academy, so one of the senior Reapers had lent a scythe shaped as a plains tribe hunting spear - taller than Reaper Humphries himself.

Of primary concern to Reaper Clement was the hesitation that the youngster would exhibit when about to make a chop - especially with the younger appointments. While she admired his kind heart to those in distress, there was always a chance that a human soul would turn on the Reaper, especially with the waiting that souls sometimes had to endure here. A Reaper simply could not give the soul time to reflect, to begin to long for living, to become angry at being left alone either entrapped in the dead flesh or separated from it.

There were times when Will would have to call in his own seniors for such. The longer a soul was left, the more corrupted it became. Anger fed on despair to turn the soul into a vengeful thing no matter the disposition in life, capable of cruelty to shock even demons. It took strong, canny, experienced Reapers to deal with them, and a Reaper only had to learn that lesson once.

Perhaps an interview with Reaper Humphries himself would be of value. If Will could find him. Reaper Humphries was also astute at not being findable, Eric having had the only glimpse of him since their arrival and described him as being 'a wee thing.'

So Will went hunting.

What he found were a great many places where Alan Humphries was not.

Places he was not included his assigned room.

Where Alan Humphries was, however, caused Will some vexation in the small hours of the morning. That headboard was going to come through the wall of his room at this rate.

Then it stopped for a time, and Will went to sleep.

An hour later he sat up, put his glasses back on and glared that the wall from which the steady, rapid banging came - now with vocal accompaniment.

Honestly. He'd been taking some baiting from the Americans and a good bit of flack over his age, but this was getting right up his nose. Getting out of bed, he put on his glasses, combed his hair back into order, and put on his shoes. Perhaps Mr. Humphries was baiting him, or perhaps he was just as enthusiastic about having sex as any young adult Reaper, but either way Will was going to have some peace and quiet tonight.

Exiting his room, he did not even bother knocking at the door to room ten - the locks were flimsy and responded to a solid shouldering. Will was mildly relieved that the curtains on the big brass four-poster were pulled to. The beast with two backs was a somewhat ridiculous-looking activity, and the beast with three backs must be triply so. Laying his hands on the thick brass rails of the foot-board, he dragged the massive bed well away from the wall.

There was a blessed silence as well as a somewhat astonished one.

"Reaper Humphries." Silence. Will repeated himself, a touch more firmly. "Reaper Humphries."

"Yes, Reaper Spears?" There was a note of caution in the youngster's voice.

"I will expect you to find me later this morning to discuss your assignment to London Division. Unless-" Will paused, not letting himself smile. "You would rather discuss that now? You have been rather difficult to locate."

"Um. Now? No, not particularly. Sir." There was a faintly horrified note in that. Most satisfactory.

"Eight of the clock, Reaper Humphries, and do be punctual." Will couldn’t suppress a small twitch of his lips. Got him. "Good morning."


End file.
